


Shadow of Mortality

by TarvaBaggins



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29565849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarvaBaggins/pseuds/TarvaBaggins
Summary: Being mortalsucks.
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion & Túrin Turambar
Kudos: 1





	Shadow of Mortality

**Author's Note:**

> Platonic relationship, yada yada, you know the drill by now.  
> This fic is set during one of the first winters that Túrin is in Doriath (he was 9 when he arrived, so he’s probably between 11 and 13 here): long enough for him and Beleg to have gotten pretty close, but not long enough that Beleg is used to all the side effects of being human. Also Túrin has definitely gotten sick in Doriath before, but Beleg was never there to see it.  
> This is like the only actual sick fic I’ve ever written, I think. It’s not my usual aesthetic—usually I go in more for injuries if I want to do a H/C or whump—but the idea of an elf being like “???????!!?” about sickness offered just enough comedy that I couldn’t resist. I still have no idea what I’m doing in this territory though, and it probably shows.  
> My best friend really likes physical touch in bromances, so I made sure to include a lot of that for her. :-3 Love you, EA.
> 
> I’m assuming, for the sake of this fic, that although Beleg has met his share of mortals, he had never seen one sick without reason before. Because why would he have? Beren was the only human to come to Doriath before now. So here’s a fic about how the most skilled healer in Doriath (and pooossibly all of Middle Earth) learns how to take care of a tiny sick human.

Beleg leaned his long bow against the wall and unslung the quiver from his back. The keeper of the gate-room murmured something to a young messenger, who nodded and flitted away into the shadows of the hallway. Beleg smiled. Túrin would be here soon; the messenger had gone to announce his arrival to the king, and it was never long before the foster-prince from Dor-Lómin would infallibly get word and appear in the gate-room to follow Beleg about like a shadow for the rest of the day. In the meantime, he sat down on one of the benches against the wall and set about mending a tear in his cloak.

An hour passed. By the end of it, he had filled a pack with supplies for his next trip to the north-marches, restocked his quiver with arrows from the weapons room, sharpened both his knives (and replaced the winding on the grip on one of them), even cleaned the mud from his boots; and during that time, many elves had come through, some to gather supplies and gear for themselves and others just to say hello, but still Túrin had not arrived. This seemed strange, and Beleg decided to go look for him.

The first elf he met in the hallway was one he knew well: one of the personal assistants of the royal family.

“Tolchanar,” Beleg said, “where is Túrin?”

“He is in his room. He is sick.”

“Sick?” Beleg repeated. His stomach twisted in confusion and fear. “What do you mean?” He knew that humans would grow sick and frail when they were nearing the end of their lives. But Túrin was only a child; how could he be sick?

“Humans sometimes fall mysteriously ill during the winter; they are weaker and more vulnerable then than they are in the summer.”

Somehow this wasn’t any comfort.

“Can I see him?” Beleg asked.

“I don’t see why not. You know where his room is?”

“I do.”

“Ioristel the healer is there with him now. I am sure she would not mind giving up her post for a while if you offered to take her place.”

“Thank you.”

Beleg knew Menegroth well: the vast rooms whose roofs were held up by intricately carved pillars, the graceful bridges where the path sprang across the underground stream that rushed in little waterfalls along its natural path to the river, the high-vaulted halls with tiny silver lanterns glittering like stars at their peaks. Túrin’s room was not far from the main gate, and within a few minutes Beleg stood outside, tapping his knuckles lightly against the door. It opened, and Ioristel stood there in the doorway, a bowl of water in one hand and a folded cloth in the other.

“Beleg!” she said in a hushed, surprised voice.

“May I enter?” he asked.

“Of course. But do not wake him,” she warned. “He must sleep if he will recover.” Beleg nodded mutely. She stepped aside and Beleg slipped into the room.

The bed was big enough for even the tallest elf, and Túrin’s body barely raised the covers at one end of it. He looked so small, and helpless. Beleg remembered how light he had felt when he had carried him to Menegroth the first time, and how fragile he had seemed. He suddenly remembered hearing that Túrin’s sister had died of a sickness. That one had come from the Enemy on the winds of plague, though…and such things couldn’t pass within the Girdle of Melian…could they?

Ioristel came up behind him and together they looked down at Túrin, his face flushed and glistening with sweat, but his hands white as paper against the coverlet. His breaths came short and harsh through his slightly-open mouth.

“How long has he been like this?” Beleg asked.

“He has been sleeping for a few hours now. The sickness came on him yesterday.”

Beleg nodded silently. It occurred to him that he had no knowledge in the healing of human illnesses, at least not of the kind that just came on without warning like this. He _should_ have asked about this before, _should_ have learned what to do in this kind of situation, _should_ hav—

Ioristel glanced over. “Would you like to stay with him?”

“Yes.”

She handed Beleg the bowl of water. “You put your hand against his forehead, like this,” she said, “and if it feels cool, then you need not change the cloth. But if it feels warmer—like this—” She took Beleg's hand and put it on Túrin’s forehead so he could feel the temperature. “—then you do this—” She dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out. “—and then this.” When she laid the cloth across Túrin’s forehead, Túrin stirred in his sleep and whimpered. Beleg’s eyes stung with sudden tears but he nodded.

“If he wakes up,” Ioristel added, “give him some of this,” and she pointed to a cup on the table beside the bed. “It’s medicine.” She pulled a chair up next to the bed and tapped the back of it, indicating that Beleg should sit down. “It will be a while before he wakes.” She went to the door, but before going out she paused to add, “If his condition worsens terribly much, send someone for me. But there should be no trouble.” And then she was gone. Beleg sat down on the chair and pulled his knees up to his chest, and so began his vigil.

Time dragged by. Túrin slept uneasily, and Beleg replaced the cloth on his forehead over and over until he lost count of how many times. It was probably close to nightfall when Túrin was taken suddenly by a fit of shivering, curling up tightly in his sleep and wildly mumbling things that Beleg couldn’t understand. Whether it was gibberish or an unfamiliar language from Túrin’s childhood in Dor-Lómin, Beleg didn’t know. When Beleg laid his hand against Túrin’s forehead, the boy pulled away sharply and cried out in his sleep. A cold feeling crept into Beleg’s heart and he wondered if he should call Ioristel. He went to the door and looked out into the hallway. There was no one in sight. He decided, with some anxiety, to stay with Túrin and hope that nothing was going horribly wrong. He discovered he couldn’t sit still though, and began pacing half-circles around the room.

It was strange how important this young human had become to him in only a few years.

After a few minutes, he went back to the bed and brushed aside the damp black curls that clung to Túrin’s forehead. The skin felt hot even to his elven hand, though the boy’s body still shivered violently. Beleg bit his lip. His ears caught the sound of a footstep in the hall and he sprang to the door and softly called to the elf passing by.

To his relief, it was Ioristel’s assistant Nirorthor. At Beleg’s voice he turned and raised an eyebrow.

“Is something wrong, Beleg?”

“I don’t know. His temperature has gone up and he is restless but does not wake.”

Nirorthor followed him into the room and laid a hand on Túrin’s forehead. After a long moment he shrugged.

“That is normal,” he said.

“Is it?” Beleg wasn’t sure he believed this, but Nirorthor gave him a reassuring smile and left. Beleg sat down again, though he was still uneasy. Again he wished he would have thought to study human illnesses before now.

It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning before the sunrise that Túrin finally woke for the first time. Beleg had been braiding a cord for a hunting horn and singing softly when he heard a muffled cough. Looking up, he saw Túrin’s eyes glittering in the shadowy lamplight, watching the elf’s movements.

“Túrin!” Beleg exclaimed.

Túrin coughed again and tried to roll onto his side. Beleg wasn’t sure if this was allowed when a human was sick, but he didn’t try to stop him. Instead he took the cup from the table.

“Ioristel says you’re to drink this,” he said. Túrin buried his face in the pillow and put his elbow over his eyes. Beleg gently pulled his arm away and supported his shoulders as he held the edge of the cup to the boy’s lips. Túrin took one swallow before going into a fit of coughing. Beleg carefully let him back down onto the bed, and Túrin twisted around until his back was turned to the elf and pulled the covers up to his chin. Beleg set the cup back down on the table, not sure whether to feel miffed, amused, or concerned. He had been told to be sure Túrin drank the medicine, and wasn’t sure if a single mouthful counted. He wondered what was in the stuff anyway. He would have to ask Ioristel later.

“Túrin?” he called softly. The blankets shifted as Túrin curled in on himself like a hedgehog. Beleg went round to the other side of the bed. Túrin’s eyes were shut tight, but there were tear trails running down his face to the pillow. Beleg sat down on the edge of the bed and Túrin rolled over again.

“Túrin, it’s me. It’s Beleg.”

“It’s _not_ you, though, is it?” Túrin’s voice was muffled. “You’re always leaving, always gone, and you never take me with you.”

“I do take you with me, sometimes, whenever I can.”

“Just go away,” Túrin sobbed. Beleg was taken aback and sat stunned for a minute.

“Do…do you want Ioristel to come sit with you instead?” he asked at last.

“No,” Túrin whimpered, and he suddenly rolled back again and flung his arms around Beleg’s waist, half-pulling himself into his lap. “No, stay, don’t go.”

Beleg was even more confused now, but he preferred this most recent turn of mood of Túrin’s, so he just pulled the blanket up around the boy’s shoulders and started running his fingers through his dark hair, unraveling the tangled parts and brushing it back behind his ears, away from his face. Túrin shook with quiet sobs, which after a minute turned into words.

“I’m so lonely here. I’m so alone. Why would my mother not come?”

Beleg didn’t quite understand the bond between a child and his mother, but he knew it must be strong, because he remembered how forlorn Túrin had been for months after the messengers had returned alone from Dor-Lómin, remembered finding him crying in the woods on more than one occasion, and here he was still thinking about it even after so long.

“I don’t know, Túrin.”

Beleg started winding Túrin’s hair into loose braids and for a while Túrin didn’t say anything more. Beleg thought that perhaps he had fallen asleep when he suddenly buried his face in Beleg’s tunic, and in a voice that cracked in the most heartbreaking way, he added, “I have never even seen my sister.” A pause. “Do you think she looks more like me than Lalaith did?”

“Maybe.”

Túrin’s hands tightened their hold on the fabric of the tunic. “Hold me, Beleg,” he begged. With as little disturbance as he could manage, Beleg pulled his legs up onto the bed and laid back against the headboard, putting his arms around Túrin. Túrin burrowed against his side and Beleg could feel the hot tears seeping through his tunic to his own skin. “Don’t leave, Beleg,” Túrin whispered. “Don’t leave me, I don’t want to be alone.”

“I’m not going to leave. I’ll stay here with you until you’re better.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear it.”

Túrin sighed and pulled himself up until his head rested on Beleg’s shoulder, his breath hot against the elf’s ear. Beleg ran his hand up and down Túrin’s back until the boy’s breathing slowed and his grip loosened in sleep. Very carefully, so that he wouldn’t wake him, Beleg shifted positions; the carvings on the headboard had been digging into his back rather uncomfortably.

A couple of hours went by. Beleg had gradually slid down until he lay on his back among the blankets, Túrin still curled up against his side. He had lost circulation in the arm that Túrin was lying on top of, but he didn’t want to try moving it for fear of waking him.

The door opened. If Ioristel was surprised to see Beleg in the bed with Túrin, it didn’t show on her face.

“Is he still sleeping?”

“Now he is. He woke up once though.”

“Did he take any medicine?”

“Not much.”

“I didn’t think he would.” She came up to the bed and, leaning across Beleg to reach Túrin, laid the back of her hand against the boy’s forehead.

“His temperature has gone down,” Beleg said. “That’s a good sign, right?”

“Most often, yes,” she replied. “Here, I’ll help move him off of you.”

Beleg considered telling her not to bother, but he had definitely lost all the feeling in his fingertips on the one hand, so he waited until she had half-lifted Túrin before sliding his arm away and sitting up, flexing his shoulders to try to get the blood flowing again. Ioristel let Túrin back onto the bed, and he sighed in his sleep and pulled his eyebrows together, curling up with his knees to his chest.

“He should sleep soundly for a while now,” she said. “I will stay with him the rest of the time if you need to leave.”

“No. When he woke up he asked me to stay. I said I would.”

“Very well,” she said with a quiet laugh. “Though he will likely not remember you saying so.”

“But _I_ would remember.”

“True.” She smiled. “When he wakes up, try to get him to drink more of the medicine, even all the rest of it, if you can.” Beleg nodded and she left.

He walked around the room a couple of times to wake his legs up before resuming his perch in the chair. The next hours went by quickly, it seemed, and in late morning Túrin stirred and opened his eyes. They were still bloodshot and weary, but more alert than they had been before.

“Good morning, Túrin,” Beleg said. Túrin’s eyes widened.

“Beleg!” he said in the hoarsest voice the elf had ever heard, and immediately went into a fit of coughing. Beleg leaned forward in some concern and put a hand on Túrin’s shoulder, but Túrin shook his head. After a few seconds the coughs subsided. “I’m alright,” he said, though his voice seemed very much to contradict the words. “But I did not know you were going to come. I am glad you did. When did you get here?”

“Yesterday.”

“What day is it?”

“The tenth of Girithron, I think. Now here, you’re to have this medicine, and drink all of it if you can.”

Túrin made a face.

“Please.”

Túrin groaned but managed to raise himself into a half-sitting position against the pillows. Beleg handed him the cup, and since Túrin’s hands were unsteady Beleg supported them while Túrin drank. The cup was almost empty when Túrin pushed it away and coughed.

“It’s horrible,” he croaked. “Don’t make me drink any more.”

“Very well,” Beleg said, and he set the cup down. “It is more than you drank last night, in any case.” Túrin's eyebrows drew down in confusion.

“I never woke up last night.”

“You did, though you may not remember it.” Beleg let out a wry laugh and added, “You couldn’t decide whether you wanted me to go or stay.”

“I never would tell you to go!”

“I thought not too. I was surprised.”

“I think you are making it up.” Túrin sat up more and tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Beleg put his hand against Túrin’s chest to keep him from leaving. Ioristel hadn’t told him whether to let Túrin get out of bed or not, but really, he did not sound well at all. Túrin looked down at Beleg’s hand and then back up at his face, seeming confused and a little bit irritated.

“Beleg, I am feeling better.”

Beleg doubted this. “Nevertheless I would prefer that you wait.”

“Well if you won’t let me get up then what am I to do?”

“Rest, as any should when they are recovering.”

“I am already recovered.”

“You do not sound so, or look so.”

“How would you judge that?”

“Túrin, listen to yourself. And your eyes say to me that they are not yet finished with their sleep.”

“I am not tired.”

“Then we will ask Ioristel when she comes.”

Túrin lay back against the pillows with a huff and folded his arms. “You don’t know anything about healing me, do you?”

“It seems not,” Beleg admitted. “I have never been sick in such a way myself.”

“Then you are fortunate. Truly the Eldar have the better lot in life, it seems.”

“You would have to ask one who knows more of both than I.”

“Like Lúthien, or Beren?”

Beleg laughed softly. “I suppose so, if you would travel as far as Tol Galen to ask them.”

Túrin was quiet for a minute, and then he asked, “Did Beren truly die and return?”

“Of course,” Beleg replied.

“You saw with your own eyes?”

“I did.”

“That is not what I was told happens when one of the Edain departs.”

“No, for when most leave they are gone forever, but Beren’s fate was not like the fate of most.”

“Do the Eldar return? For Lúthien died, and she lives again now, does she not?”

“Lúthien returned as a mortal, Túrin. But these are deep thoughts for one who is so young. Why are you asking me these things?”

“No else will tell me much about them. And I am trying to pass the time.”

Beleg moved to sit down on the bed near Túrin’s feet. Túrin looked down at his hands and started twisting the edge of the coverlet around them.

“What if I _did_ live twice, as Beren did?” he asked suddenly.

“Would you want that?”

“Yes, for then I could see you again.”

“Again?” Beleg didn’t like the direction Túrin seemed to be going with this.

“You’re going to outlive me, Beleg, don’t pretend you aren’t.” Túrin looked up, and his eyes burned with intensity. Beleg found it hard to meet them.

“We don’t know that.”

“I’m mortal, and you are one of the Eldar. You will outlive me.”

“I choose not to think of such things, for whether I do or no, my life will have been better for having had you in it.”

Túrin tossed the covers aside and turned so that his feet were on the pillow and his back leaned against Beleg.

“You know,” he said quietly, “mine too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beleg, and my best friend, and me, to bby Túrin as he brings up death in a totally unrelated conversation: “Why are you like this??”


End file.
